Tuesday, November 3, 2009

poetry doesn't begin w/a lump in the throat but rather w/a hand grenade...

that old softy robert frost said that
on his stone he wanted written:
"i had a lover's quarrel with the world"

i don't desire a stone but if i did i'd want:
"he had pistol whipping fist fights
w/this godless son-of-a-bitchin' world"
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.